When You Went Away

by Michael Baron

  By the time I finally settled in a little (and the household income increased dramatically with your mother’s return to the workplace), you were in elementary school and your world had broadened beyond the two of us. You sometimes had your own work to do after dinner and an endless succession of playdates on the weekends. I suppose I owe my first major promotion at Eleanor Miller to you, since it came via the marketplace study I did while waiting at your Sunday afternoon dance classes.

  I sometimes wonder what I lost during those first five years of your life. We had plenty of weekend time together and I tried to get home before you went to bed as often as possible during the week, but I have to admit that I regularly thought about something else while I was with you. I might have been playing on the floor with you and your blocks, but I was wondering about something that happened at the office or some program I was developing. The fact that you didn’t notice (or, if you did, you didn’t seem to mind) made it so much easier for me to do this. But I think I only now realize that it wasn’t you who was missing out on having me (after all, you always had your mother), but me who was missing out on having you.

  I had the toughest time getting ready for my dinner with Ally. I imagined that Reese was coming down with something. I imagined that I was coming down with something. I even imagined that Lisa came down with something and was going to call any moment to say she couldn’t babysit. Ally hadn’t actually named what we were doing a date, but it was hard for me to interpret her invitation any other way. This led me invariably to wonder what I was thinking by accepting it. I was about as prepared to go out on a date as I was to swim the English Channel.Maureen was gone less than four months and I hadn’t begun contemplating moving on in even the remotest way. And I didn’t want to hurt Ally’s feelings by giving her the impression that I was capable of handling more than a casual friendship at this point. I really liked her, but there was an excellent chance that I would never be ready for anything more than a casual friendship. Maureen and I were together from our sophomore year in college, essentially since I was out of diapers. That was about as close to mated for life as I could imagine.

  Before Ally suggested dinner, I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to dating again. I’m sure my subconscious toyed with the notion that at forty (a landmark birthday that passed unceremoniously a few weeks earlier), I was too young to be celibate forever, but that was as far as it had gone. And since I liked Ally and I wanted to maintain a friendship with her, I needed to handle this with more skill than I possessed.

  I received a sucker punch of a flashback when I left the house that night. I left Reese with Lisa every weekday, and we were very good at making the exchange. But the last time I left him with a babysitter for a night out was that last date with Maureen. And as I drove off to meet Ally, all of it came rushing back to me – the kiss Maureen gave my hand, the conversation about how good this was for us, the anticipation of an entire dinner uninterrupted by the needs of the baby or the weight of end-of-a-long-day tiredness, setting aside for a few hours our endless concern about Tanya, the intense passion when we got home, and the way we held each other in bed that night. I could sense Maureen’s warmth against me, the curve of her ankles intertwined with mine as we lay together – and I felt the loss of that sensation as completely as I had on that dismal January night when I discovered her body.

  I actually needed to pull over to the side of the road. I looked down at my cell phone and considered calling Ally and begging off, certain that this was the first in a series of panic attacks. For several minutes, I couldn’t move. Maureen was almost always on my mind, but there were times when she came so startlingly close to being real for me again that I could barely tolerate the experience. To have her be this near and yet forever unreachable was excruciating.

  I didn’t know what to do. Ally would certainly understand if I canceled at the last minute. I would explain myself on Monday, she’d talk me through it, and I’d wind up not only feeling a little better, but like I’d made the tiniest move toward getting my feet back under me. But when I realized this – that the person I felt most comfortable talking with about what I was going through was the person I was on my way to see – I convinced myself to continue the evening. I turned on the iPod and listened to some music, willing myself to calm down. After a few minutes, I started to relax a little and gain some equilibrium. Cautiously, I put the car back on the road.

  By the time I got to the restaurant, I felt as close to normal as I ever felt these days. Whether or not the worst of it had passed, I had no idea. But I did know that I was capable of continuing. I made up my mind that I wouldn’t talk to Ally about what just occurred unless it happened again. She didn’t need my weighing her down like this the second I saw her. And as the minutes passed, I became more and more convinced I could handle myself.

  We chose a New American place I really wanted to try. The chef came from an inn on the Connecticut River Valley where she developed a reputation for innovation built upon rock-solid fundamentals. I read articles by and about her in cooking magazines, and the only reason I hadn’t been there since the restaurant opened was because Maureen developed a decided preference for comfort food in the months before Tanya left.

  Ally was already seated when I arrived. She stood up when I got to the table and I wasn’t sure whether I should kiss her on the cheek or simply sit down. After an awkward second, I touched her on the arm of her orange sweater.

  “Cashmere?” I said, as we sat.

  “Cashmere blend. Eleanor Miller doesn’t pay me enough for the pure thing.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.Well, it’s a great sweater.”

  “Thanks. You look nice dressed down. I couldn’t imagine it in my head.”

  “You could imagine me with peas on my face, but you couldn’t imagine me in khakis?”

  “You’re very easy to imagine with peas on your face – don’t take that the wrong way.”

  “It might take me a few minutes to figure out the right way to take that comment.”

  A waiter came by with a glass of red wine for her. She thanked him and both of them turned to me. “They have Morgan’s 2005 Syrah by the glass here,” Ally said.

  “That would be great,” I said to the waiter.

  While we waited for my drink to arrive, we talked about our Saturdays. Mine involved the usual errands that piled up awaiting the weekend. There were also about a dozen minutes at a local park before I decided that the day was too cold for Reese to stay outside. Instead, after an especially messy lunch, we took a long bath together: Reese discovered his squeaky hippopotamus and the bath book with a sound chip that played “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” (one of the few concessions I made to kiddie songs). The two things entertained him for nearly a half hour.

  Ally’s Saturday started considerably later than mine did – “Somewhere around 10:30. I like to make up for lost sleep on the weekends.” She had errands to run as well, but hers included an impromptu decision to see the new Meryl Streep movie.

  “Impromptu decisions,” I said. “God, I remember those.”

  “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.”

  “Yeah, I vaguely recall that as well. And hey, our bath was spontaneous. Certainly there was nothing premeditated about playing ‘Old MacDonald’ fortyseven times.”

  “Forty-seven different animals?”

  “No, the same four because those were the sounds I knew how to make. One of the moral dilemmas of being the parent of an infant. You could pretend that an aardvark made the same sound as a horse and he wouldn’t know the difference. But if you start lying to your kid when he’s six months old, can you ever really stop?”

  Ally smiled. She had a gorgeous, reassuring smile that made you think that she was both beautiful and someone with whom you wanted to be friends. It dawned on me that I didn’t have any beautiful friends. I had friends who were perfectly pleasant looking, but none of either gender who I would describe as beautiful. Maureen and Tanya were beautiful. Was t
hat enough for me? Was I subconsciously adhering to some quota? Or was I even more subconsciously keeping beautiful people out of my life?

  My wine came, and with it our menus. Ally looked down at hers and we concentrated on these for a few minutes.

  “Wow, monkfish osso bucco,” she said.

  “Do you know about this chef?”

  “Deborah Gold? Yeah, Newsday made a big deal about her arrival a few months ago. And I read about her in Food and Wine and Saveur.”

  “Oh you get Saveur too? I love how they take you all over the world to the source of cooking. I didn’t realize you like to cook.”

  “I like reading about food. And of course I love eating it – is there anyone who doesn’t? But I’m a really awful cook.” She got a sheepish expression on her face. “It’s genetic. Family Services nearly sent me to a foster home because of my mother’s pot roast.”

  “You just need a better teacher. There’s nothing genetic about it.”

  “Do you cook?”

  “Almost every night. Even tonight. I braised some chicken thighs and porcini mushrooms for Lisa.”

  Ally shook her head. “You braised chicken for your babysitter? Don’t most parents just order a pizza?” “I thought I’d offer her a little bonus for coming on a Saturday. Besides, it’s just something that simmers on the stove for a couple of hours. It’s not like I needed to slave over it.”

  “Feel free to bring me lunch any time you want.” She looked down at her menu. “What are you ordering?”

  I decided on the barley risotto with spring peas and the seared tuna with sauce Diane. Ally ordered the lobster and endive spring roll and found the monkfish osso bucco too fascinating to pass up. The chef prepared the food caringly and presented it with flair and a sense of humor. She clearly understood what went without saying in the best restaurants – that it wasn’t enough to appeal to the taste buds, that a dining experience should be delightful on a number of levels.

  Of course, the quality of the food would have made no difference whatsoever if things had been uncomfortable or tense between Ally and me. Aside from the obvious concerns about what Ally was expecting from this evening and how I was going to handle any of it, I was equally worried about running out of things to say. Or even that we might find each other unpleasant outside of the office. But that didn’t happen.

  “By the way,” she said, swallowing a bite of spring roll. “I found someone who shares my opinion about Abba.”

  “You’re kidding.How many people did you have to ask?”

  “Not as many as you think. Confirmed my suspicions that you’re a music snob.”

  “Only by the broadest possible definition.What is it that you like about them?”

  “They’re buoyant.”

  “So’s a hot-air balloon.”

  “Yep, definitely a music snob.”

  “They also had their biggest hits when you were in elementary school. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

  “Are you telling me you don’t listen to Led Zeppelin? You can hold onto the past and embrace the future at the same time, you know.”

  “Abba, jeez.”

  We kept the conversation pretty much at this level – current events, pop culture, food, work, and, of course, Reese. I checked my cell phone a couple of times just to make sure I hadn’t missed a call, but otherwise I was surprised by how in the moment I was. Especially given what a wreck I was fifteen minutes before I got to the restaurant.

  It was refreshing and even a little bit exciting to have this kind of night. Other than a business meal a few weeks after Reese was born and then that one night with Maureen, I hadn’t been out to dinner in nearly six months. And it felt inordinately good to let things go for a little while.

  “This was fun,” Ally said as we stood in front of her car later in the evening.

  “It was. Thanks for suggesting it.”

  She smiled. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.” “I’d like that.”

  For the first time since the night started, I felt a bit strange. I didn’t know how to say goodbye to her. The silence that ensued over the next twenty seconds or so was longer than any we endured over dinner. Finally, she pecked me chastely on the lips and, in nearly the same motion, turned and opened her car door.

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” she said.

  I stood next to her car until she drove off. It was only when I was alone that I felt the impact of the kiss. It was nothing but the briefest contact and it was entirely possible that she did this kind of thing with friends all the time. But it affected me nevertheless. The only person I kissed on the lips in recent memory – even this casually – was Maureen. And the fact that I found this notable and even a little bit thrilling brought me crashing back to earth.

  I’d allowed myself a diverting evening with a charming woman. I found this woman fascinating and I wanted to get to know her better. And when she kissed me at the end of the night, it moved me both physically and emotionally.

  How was any of this possible only four months after the death of the woman I dedicated my entire adult life to?

  If something this casual could sweep me up, what did this say about my commitment to Maureen? How could I not be so overwhelmed by sadness that an entertaining night like this was impossible for the conceivable future?

  By the time I got home, I was convinced that I’d betrayed Maureen and was due some serious self-flagellation. What the hell was I doing going out on a date? This was so utterly inappropriate and so completely wrong.

  I didn’t realize until I walked into the house that it was after eleven. Lisa was watching television in the family room.

  “Everything okay with Reese?” I said.

  “He’s sleeping like a baby,” she said, chuckling at her little joke. She put on her shoes and walked toward the door. “I figured you’d be back an hour ago. You’re almost going to make me late meeting my friends.”

  I even screwed up with the babysitter. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Not a problem. Did you have a good time tonight?”

  “Yeah, thanks. It was nice.”

  Yes, it was nice.What was wrong with me?

  ELEVEN

  Cool

  I haven’t written to you yet about your mother’s dying. That probably speaks volumes about how I’m dealing with it. I don’t know why it wasn’t the very first thing I wrote about in this journal. It probably had something to do with the look in your eyes when I told you about it. It also had a lot to do with how I felt to have to tell you.

  Nothing special happened the morning before your mother died. There were no poignant moments, no expressions that passed between us that said, “Just in case I’m not here when you get home tonight, here’s something to carry with you the rest of your life.” Reese had another lousy night’s sleep and we were both ragged. He’d been up for an hour already by the time I got into the shower. When I got out, both he and your mother were fast asleep again, his little body resting on her chest. I didn’t want to wake either of them, so when I finished getting ready for work, I kissed them both softly and crept out of the bedroom.

  Even with the lack of sleep, I was still feeling a little boost from the date we’d had that Saturday. Your mother looked fabulous that night. It wasn’t just that she was wearing grown-up clothes for the first time in a couple of months. She was radiating. I’m sure some of it was from the simple fact that we were getting away. But I think it was primarily because we were getting away together. We always had that between us. Even when we were mesmerized by your coming into our lives and fascinated with exploring the mysteries of parenthood and the prospects of building a family together, we always made sure to keep some time between us, to keep our love affair fresh. This is advice I’m sure she would have given you when you had a baby of your own.

  So I drove off to work feeling good about the future. I was still terribly worried about where you were, but something told me you were coming home soon, that our family would be whole again
, and that we would move forward together. The cloud cover had lifted.

  So much for instinct.

  I’ve wondered from time to time if I should have awakened your mother that morning to say goodbye to her. If I had known it was going to be the last time, I wouldn’t have let it pass with only a faint kiss on the forehead. Or maybe I would have.

  She was so tired. It would have been selfish of me to get her up – and probably Reese as well – just so I could feel better.

  I have very little memory of what happened when I came home that night. The doctor told me that she was irretrievable by then. I truly don’t remember what she looked like or felt like. My memory is limited to Reese’s screaming. I guess I called Gail (she and Tate have split up, by the way, but that’s another story) because she was there to take care of the baby when I went to the hospital. When I left your mother that night, I kissed her forehead one more time. In my mind, the kiss felt the same as the one I gave her that morning, but I know that couldn’t have been the case.

  Since then, I’ve had these little periods when everything seems okay. I had another one last night, which I guess is why I’m writing you about this now. It’s not that I don’t understand that life has to continue, and it’s not that I thought that there would never be a point when I could laugh easily or simply have a good time again. But these feelings don’t last and they still seem unnatural to me. Not when I have them – at that point, they seem amazingly natural – but afterward. If you and I were going through this together, I’m sure we would talk about that a lot. I’d like to believe we would help each other out, that we would get together on this.