by David Hicks
One Friday, out of the blue, our friend Judy Lee calls to invite us over to have dinner with her and her partner Jade. I haven’t seen ol’ JL since our falling out last year, so it’s an important date. But as Louise and I are getting ready to go, Rachel calls to tell me I can have the kids, no conditions this time, they miss me and it’s high time they saw their father, which is code for I’m going away for the weekend with Sam and my niece just told me she can’t babysit. I cover the phone and ask Louise what I should do.
Louise stares at me for a moment, blows out her cheeks, and marches off to her car. As she peels out of the dirt driveway, I take a deep breath and tell Rachel that one hour doesn’t constitute “advanced notice”; but when I hang up on her (“So let me get this straight,” she shouts so Nathan and Janey can hear, “you don’t want to see your children?”) and call Louise to find out where the restaurant is, she ignores my calls. An hour later, she texts me to say that she’ll be spending the night at Judy Lee’s.
The next day, I schedule a hearing at Broome County Family Court to report Rachel’s many and various violations of the visitation agreement. When she gets wind of this, Rachel files a counter-petition for an increase in child support commensurate with my recent increase in revenue, which of course has gone unreported to the IRS. But I know that she knows the judge won’t look kindly on what she’s been up to, so I tell her if she promises to give me the kids the following weekend, no funny business, I’ll withdraw my petition. She says fine, but she’s still going to make sure she gets the increase, and I say that’s fine, I don’t mind paying my fair share.
On Friday I make the drive to Binghamton, constantly checking my phone, and pull up to their street like a PTSD victim, certain the house will be empty. But there they are, waiting on the porch.
During our drive to Nicholson, they both talk at once, and if one of them gets my attention for too long, the other jumps in, and before you know it they’re screaming at each other, Nathan punches Janey in the shoulder, I turn to yell at him, and the car shudders dangerously onto the shoulder.
I pull over, both hands on the steering wheel. The move from Colorado to Pennsylvania was supposed to have made everything better, but nothing has gone as planned. I left an academic position with a decent salary and job security for a risky self-employment scheme with uneven pay and zero security; the kids are always fighting; Rachel is more stubborn than ever; and now Louise is MIA. I came home from work on Monday to find her side of the bathroom sink cleared out, along with a note saying she was staying at Judy Lee’s indefinitely, please respect her wishes and don’t contact her for a few days. It’s been almost a week. The house is so empty without her.
I look in the rearview mirror. Nathan has his arms folded tight, his face scrunched. He looks like a spindlier, handsomer version of me. Janey is crying and rubbing her shoulder. I want to scream at Nathan to never, never hit his sister, but I’ve said that before. I count slowly to ten.
“It’s been a long month,” I say to the rearview mirror. “I think we really miss each other.”
After we’re back on the road for a few minutes, Nathan mumbles that he’s sorry and Janey says, “That’s okay.”
When we get home, Louise is there. In the kitchen. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life. I look at the kids—I’m sure I’m beaming—but to them this isn’t news; they expected her to be there. She has a new dress on and she’s cooking Janey’s favorite dish, tortellini with butter and parmesan. She hugs the kids and shows them the cake she’s baked for my birthday. I had completely forgotten what day it was, and clearly so had the kids. They look at the cake. They look at me. Louise sets down the wooden spoon and whisks them upstairs.
When they come back down, I’ve got one bowl of tortellini set up for the kids, another (with pesto instead of butter, along with a mixed-green salad) for us. They have handmade cards, along with presents: a pair of wool socks from Nathan (which Louise had bought for me), and an illustrated three-line poem from Janey: Happy birthday to my dad / Who makes us all so very glad / Even when he is sad.
I kiss them and they run back upstairs to wash their hands.
“It’s not their fault,” Louise says, pulling out the placemats and napkins. “Rachel should tell them when it’s your birthday. You do that kind of thing all the time for her. Have they ever once sent you a Father’s Day card? A birthday card? Christmas?”
I lean against the doorframe, staring at her. Her blue dress has lit up her slate eyes. “You’re back,” I say.
She shrugs, and the smile she had for the kids has disappeared. “It’s your birthday,” she says.
*
Sunday afternoon, after I return from taking the kids back to Binghamton, Louise and I have a quiet dinner together. She tells me she’s done a lot of thinking. She’s tired of all the Rachel drama—no not Rachel’s Rachel drama, my Rachel drama. Tired of feeling like a second-class citizen. Tired of being treated like an afterthought. “You’re not being straight with me,” she says. “You’re trying to make everyone happy, but as a result, you’re making nobody happy. Least of all yourself.” I can tell she has rehearsed some of this, but her voice trembles as she speaks, and I realize she is the type of person who is so frightened of her own anger that she turns it inward instead of projecting it outward, and that means she has probably been storing it all up and is about to break up with me.
Then she announces that she is going out to walk the dogs.
I step outside and watch her stride down the road, her hair shimmering. She holds back Tess with one leash and pulls Noah forward with the other. There’s something about the way she walks, her back upright, her hips swaying. Something about the kindness in her voice, even when she’s upset. I never knew you could love every part of a person, even the parts you don’t like.
I put my hands on my hips and breathe in the piney air.
I once saw a sign in a Colorado café: Don’t climb into the saddle if you ain’t ready to ride.
Before long I hear barking in the distance, then a shout, and I see Tess racing back, full speed, by herself. She scampers up to me in the garden, then loops around my feet, panting. I peer down the road and there’s Louise, with Noah by her side, his gait stiffer than usual. Down that way are three trailers set close together with an American flag on a tall pole, and one of the residents keeps Rottweilers in cages. When I run down to Louise, she tells me that one of the Rottweilers got loose, tore across the lawn and leaped onto poor Noah before the owner came out and whistled him back.
“Fucking Rottweilers,” I say. I hate those bloodthirsty dogs and their fucked-up owners. Every time we walk that way, they go crazy, growling and barking, rattling their cages.
“They’re just scared,” Louise says. “Poor things, locked in cages all day.”
“What kind of animal attacks when they’re scared?” I say, picking up Noah and carrying him through the garden.
“Almost all of them,” she says.
I lay Noah down in his bed by the front door. Tess licks his ear and stands over him, still panting. I give him some water and put my hands through his fur, feeling for blood. There isn’t any, but his heart is hammering into his rib cage. He’s breathing as if his lungs can’t get enough oxygen. He paws his way onto me so he’s half on his bed, half on my lap, and I cradle his boney head. I tell him to hang in there. I tell him he’s been a wonderful dog. I tell him that he’s the one who welcomed me to this weird and magical home. I tell him Louise loves him as much as I do now, and it’s been very nice of him to tolerate her scruffy little dog even though it’s his house, and it’s been nice of him as well to have been such a pal to Nathan and Janey, letting Janey ride him like a horse and swimming in the creek with Nathan just to keep an eye on him. I tell him (while looking at Louise) that he’s been helping me to learn how to love. I tell him the Rottweiler owners are mean stupid sons of bitches, and as soon as he start
s breathing normally again I’m going to go down there and kick their asses.
Louise brings him some leftover salmon from the refrigerator, but he can’t eat it. She squats down next to me and cups her hand on Noah’s heart. She rests her forehead on my shoulder. “This isn’t good,” she whispers.
Noah rests his chin on my lap, exhales, and dies.
*
Ten days later, we drive down to Hershey Park, the four of us: roller coaster rides, a tour of the chocolate factory, funnel cakes—the whole nine yards, as my father used to say. Janey keeps a tight grip on my hand, I keep a tight grip on Louise’s, and Nathan runs circles around us, darting over to a booth, dashing through arcades, showing off how fast he is. When he asks if he can go on a ride that looks vomit-inducing, I consult with Louise and we decide he’s not old enough; we suggest the super-swings as an alternative. When Janey asks for cotton candy, I shake my head no, and when she persists, Louise bends down, puts her hand on Janey’s cheek, and says “Sweetie, if you have any more sugar today, you might explode!” and Janey widens her eyes, probably thinking of the kid in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, which we had all watched together a week earlier.
At one point, we stuff ourselves into a photo booth: one picture with just the kids, one with me and the kids, one with me and Louise, and the last one of all four of us, Janey on my lap, Nathan on Louise’s, all of us laughing nervously.
Toward the end of the night, Louise asks Janey to go on a ride with her, just the two of them. It’s the one where you sit in a log and it plows through a wave of water at the end. Janey lets go of my hand, takes Louise’s, and they head over. Nathan and I get some soft-serve ice cream and find a bench. When the ride comes to a halt, Louise and Janey are both drenched and bent over laughing. They’re laughing so hard it takes them a while to get out, and the teenager running the ride has to come over and help move things along.
On the drive home, the kids fall asleep in the back, and Louise leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
We get stuck on the highway—a big accident involving an eighteen-wheeler—and don’t get home until after midnight. I didn’t take my cell phone, since all the people I love were with me, and when I check it I see eleven missed calls. I carry the kids up to their beds, then come back down and listen to the voicemails:
Where the hell have you taken my children?
Whatever it is you’re doing, I never gave you my approval.
I need to know exactly where they are at all times!
If you ever want to see them again, buddy, you’ll have to play by MY rules!
Stop ignoring my calls! Call me back NOW or I’m calling the police!
Louise’s smile collapses. She can hear Rachel’s voice from ten feet away. She starts cleaning the kitchen, even though we haven’t cooked anything that day. She takes a plastic six-pack holder from the garbage and snips at it, so that fish won’t get their mouths caught in the holes. She snips it to shreds.
I get it, of course: Rachel’s scared. Scared I’ve stolen the kids. Scared I’ve turned out like one of those guys on the shows she watches. Scared about the kids’ safety. Scared they’re having more fun with me than they have with her. But when she’s scared, she doesn’t act scared. She doesn’t say she’s scared.
She attacks.
*
For the next two weekends, I don’t get the kids, Rachel disconnects the land line, and I think, dear God, not this again. I call Broome County Family Court and file another petition. The clerk says, “You again?”
On the date of the hearing, Rachel shows up carrying her trusty attaché case, and when it’s our turn, we take our seats in front of the bench, and she clicks it open. It is stuffed with documents. All morning we’ve been sitting there at opposite sides of the courtroom as the judge has calmly resolved disputes, looking rather bored, but after Rachel and I make our statements, he tells us to give him a minute. He looks over a document, which I imagine is our custody agreement, then half-rises from his seat, points a long finger at Rachel, and tells her he’s absolutely sick of hearing about her uncooperative behavior. He tells her she’d better darn well start complying with the law and let the children enjoy their court-appointed visitations with their father and stop jerking everyone around, wasting the court’s valuable time. Does she understand how important their father is to them? Does she have any idea how he spends most of his days, trying to get deadbeat dads to pay child support and see their kids once in a while, wishing that they could be even a little like her ex-husband sitting right there next to her, who has never missed a child-support payment in four years and who obviously just wants to be with his children as much as he can? Does she wish to lose custody? Because that’s what’s going to happen.
He sits back down. “Have I been clear?” he says.
“Yes,” Rachel says. “Yes, your honor.” And he has to lean forward to hear her.
*
Afterwards, Rachel doesn’t look angry; she looks scared. So I ask her if she wants to get a cup of coffee.
We walk over to a place called Java Joe’s, and I order us coffee and bagels—cinnamon raisin, her favorite. Rachel’s hair has grown out a bit, and she is coloring it now to hide the gray.
“Listen,” I say after we sit down. “You’ve been a great mom. The kids are healthy and well-adjusted, and that’s all because of you. In spite of me. So I just want to say thanks for all you’ve done.” I cut my bagel in half and take a sip of my coffee. “But Jesus, enough already, you know?”
I bite into my bagel as she stiffens and tells me I have no idea what I’m talking about, living all carefree in the woods doing whatever the hell I want. She tells me about all the work she’s had to do, all the stuff I know nothing about: Nathan’s misbehavior at school, Janey’s screaming fits, keeping the house together when her adjustable mortgage rate shot up, all the while taking care of her sick mother and dealing with all kinds of expenses: over a hundred a week in groceries, the clothes they keep growing out of, unreimbursed medical bills . . .
I nod. I listen.
When she’s finished, I tell her I hear her, loud and clear. Got it. So many things I didn’t know about.
I spread some jam onto the other half of my bagel. I clear my throat. I tell Rachel I appreciate all she’s done. I remind her that once upon a time, I was the one who took care of the kids, day and night, and she totally trusted me with everything. So. When they’re with me now, she might consider that I do know what I’m doing. Therefore those crazy phone calls? They need to stop. “I understand you’re worried about them,” I say. “And I also get that you’re still angry with me. But you can trust me with them. I know how to take care of them.”
I want to say more. I want to say that the whole thing—our living together in New York, our marriage, the decisions I made after I left her, the terrible way she used the kids to get back at me, the weak and impotent ways I reacted—it was all such a mistake. So many mistakes. I want to tell her I loved her once, or thought I did, but I didn’t have any idea what I was doing. Neither of us did.
She looks away, towards the barista. She’s lost a lot of weight since the divorce; her cheekbones are coming out again. “Did you hear about what happened? The retired cop?”
I nod. It was in White Plains. A man whose wife filed for divorce came home from work and shot his two children and three dogs before shooting himself.
Rachel shakes her head, then almost sips her coffee, but doesn’t. “That poor woman, she came home to a horror show. And before he did all this, he cut her out of his retirement and life insurance.” She stares at her coffee. She seems short of breath.
“Rache,” I say. “I would never—“
She looks right at me. “Give me one reason,” she says. “Give me one fucking reason why I should ever trust you.”
I sit back. I try to see myself the way she sees me. As the man she loved more tha
n anyone, the husband who didn’t tell her a damn thing before he just up and left. The man who said I love you when he didn’t, who said everything was fine when it wasn’t. The man who moved to Colorado to shack up with some famous writer instead of fighting her for custody of the kids.
I shake my head. I can’t come up with one fucking reason.
She takes a bite of her bagel. I’ve finished mine and my coffee mug is drained.
“I’ve been both mother and father to them,” she says, and as she talks, her face and neck redden. “I deserve some respect. You can’t just come back into their lives and expect to pick up where you left off.” She thumps the table with her fist. “I’ve kept them alive,” she says, her eyes welling up. “I’ve done all the work. You have no idea.” Now she’s crying, but fighting it every step of the way, and I realize what I’ve learned from her.
Ferocity.
Passion.
Personality.
A certain say-what-you-mean-ness. Don’t-ever-fuck-with-me-ness.
Bear Love.
“It’s going to take me a while,” she says, “but yes. I will learn to trust you again.” She puffs out her cheeks. “And I’ll tell you what, Hawk. What I’ve found out. I am so much better off without you.”
She puts the rest of her bagel in her mouth and chews.
I wait. I need to treat this woman with kindness, not hostility. Not mockery. I owe her that.