by Claire Cook
I wanted to say, Of course he’ll stay in your life. You’re brilliant, sweet, and funny. You’re so incredibly beautiful, inside and out. How could he possibly resist you?
But the truth sat on the counter between us like a big fat white elephant. What ever the missing secret ingredient, somehow the recipe that included Anastasia and me hadn’t been enough once before.
“The Tide Is High” was playing now. The perky line about wanting to be your number one was making me wonder if there was a DJ in the sky somewhere with a twisted sense of humor.
I handed Anastasia a big wooden spoon to stir the Luau Punch. “When your dad left,” I said, “it wasn’t about you. You are the best thing that ever happened to either of us. Nothing about you could be more perfect—you’re smart, you’re kind, you’re talented, you’re pretty, you’re loveable. And you’re loved. What ever happens, I will always love you.”
The sound of three distinct, evenly spaced knocks came into the kitchen like punctuation. Randomly, I thought of that old song about knocking three times on the ceiling if you want me. I hoped Drew had had the good sense not to include it on this CD.
“He’s here!” Anastasia yelled. She dropped the wooden spoon and ran.
Just as she opened the front door, the song changed again.
Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
14
“HEY. YOU MUST BE ASIA.”
“Hey. You must be my dad.”
My eyes teared up, even though I’d sworn I wouldn’t let them. I wanted to float up to the ceiling, numb, ethereal. I could be Anastasia’s guardian angel, keeping an eye on her but not feeling the pain of this world.
They stood like that for a long moment—the door wide open, Seth with one foot on the threshold, the other still outside on the cracked cement step. I had this sudden awful feeling he might turn and run. I wanted to run. All those years they’d been apart stretched between them, almost visible, like a long winding trail of loss.
Finally, Seth pulled the front door closed behind him.
Anastasia held out a lei with both hands. It was royal blue and made out of crinkly plastic.
Seth leaned down. She looped it over his head.
“Aloha,” Anastasia said.
“Aloha,” Seth said.
There was a long, awkward moment.
“You can hug me if you want to,” Anastasia said.
“Thank you,” Seth said.
He set the shopping bag he was carrying down on the floor. He leaned forward and put his arms out, carefully.
Anastasia threw her arms around his neck.
Seth stood up straight and lifted Anastasia off the floor. He wrapped his arms around her and twisted back and forth. Her hula skirt made a rustling sound as her legs swung from side to side.
His eyes met mine over her head. They were shiny with tears.
I looked away.
Seth choked back a sob. Anastasia patted him on his back as if she were burping a baby. “It’s okay, Dad,” she said.
“I can do cartwheels,” Anastasia announced the second her feet touched the ground again.
“When you were little, I used to hold your feet so you could walk on your hands,” Seth said.
“Cartwheels are much harder,” Anastasia said. “Want me to show you?”
“Sure,” Seth said. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. Anastasia grabbed his other hand and pulled him toward the kitchen door. If we were still married, I would have gotten him a tissue, I thought randomly.
After the door slammed, I just stood there. The shopping bag Seth had brought with him was still sitting on the floor. I certainly wasn’t going to pick it up.
The music changed to a tinny version of “Wipeout.”
I followed the sound, happy that I could turn off at least some of the noise in my head.
WHEN ANASTASIA AND SETH finally came in, they were laughing. They both had beads of sweat mixed with the freckles on their noses, and their ears were an identical shade of red. Seth’s shirt was all wrinkled from rolling around in the yard, and he had a dandelion stuck behind one ear. He was still wearing his blue plastic lei. Anastasia had grass stains on the knees of both pink tights. I’d probably never get them out.
I felt a piercing stab of jealousy.
I grabbed a book of matches and headed for the back door to light our little Weber minigrill.
Seth held out his hand. “I’ll get that,” he said.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ve pretty much got it down by now.”
When I came back inside, Seth was helping Anastasia set the table. It was the right thing to do, but it still pissed me off. How dare you touch our silverware? I wanted to yell. How dare you touch our plates and our paper napkins? How dare you come anywhere near us after all this time?
I dug deep, trying to feel happy for Anastasia that she appeared to be having a healthy, if seriously overdue, bonding experience with her father, at the same time I focused on staying detached enough to ignore said father.
I attempted a deep breath, but even this turned out to be more difficult than it should have been. Maybe keeping my heart shut down made it harder for my other vital organs to function. The air seemed somehow thicker since Seth had arrived, almost liquid, and my body seemed to be telling me that if I breathed in too much at once, my lungs would fill up and I’d drown. My breathing stayed shallow, almost like panting.
I started threading the chunks of chicken onto wet wooden skewers. Anastasia opened the refrigerator and put the platter of pineapple kabobs on the table. She poured a bag of baby carrots into a little bowl and placed them next to the pineapple.
Seth reached for the refrigerator door.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Just trying to help,” he said.
We looked at each other.
Or not,” he said. He walked over and took a seat at our tiny kitchen table.
“Want some Hawaiian punch, Daddy?” Anastasia said.
How about a nice Hawaiian Punch? a voice from the old commercial said into my ear. If I were Punchy, the Hawaiian Punch mascot, as soon as Seth said yes, I could haul back and deck him. I couldn’t imagine anything feeling much better right now.
“Thanks, Asia,” Seth said. “I’d love some punch.”
“She goes by Anastasia,” I said.
“That’s only because you never told me about Asia,” Anastasia said. “Mom, can you go put some more music on?”
“Did something happen to your feet?” I asked sweetly.
Anastasia turned to Seth. “She gets like this sometimes. Don’t worry, she’ll calm down.”
He laughed. He stopped as soon as he saw my face and started to stand up.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
As soon as I pushed Play, and Keali’i Reichel’s lush music floated through the house, I felt better. I carefully inhaled and exhaled a few cleansing breaths. “You’re almost there,” I whispered to myself.
“Nice music,” Seth said as I walked back into the kitchen. He retrieved his shopping bag and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “In lieu of Luau Punch?”
I weighed the chance to say something mean against the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a glass of wine.
“Okay,” I said.
“Am I allowed to look for glasses and a corkscrew?” he said.
Anastasia watched our every move, as if she were at the zoo and we were the exotic animals she’d come to see.
“What ever,” I said.
“Great,” he said. “But first…” He pulled out a wooden box and put it on the table in front of Anastasia.
Her eyes lit up. She ran her hand across the top of the dark, intricately carved box reverently. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s just what I’ve always wanted.”
Seth burst out laughing. “Don’t worry. There’s stuff inside.”
Anastasia opened the box. It was filled with small cloth dolls. They were all about the same size, maybe six inches tall or so. E
ach one was female and completely unique. Their skin tones ranged from cappuccino to espresso, and a bold array of bright geometric print fabrics was wrapped around their bodies and knotted on top of their heads.
Anastasia slid her plate back. She took them out of the box carefully, laying them side by side across the table.
“You’re probably too old for dolls now…,” Seth said.
“Not this kind,” she said.
“They’re handmade Senegalese pocket dolls,” Seth said. “One of the things I did in West Africa was to help build partnerships between local artisans and fair trade organizations in the United States and Canada.”
“I love them,” Anastasia said.
I turned away to check on the rice. I grabbed the chicken off the counter.
Seth looked up at me. “And this is for you, Jill….”
I ignored him and walked out to the grill. I stood there while the skewers of chicken cooked, taking big deep gasps of air, not even caring that I was probably inhaling smoke and Huli Huli Chicken grease.
I’d just finished turning the chicken, when the kitchen door opened and Seth came out. He was holding two glasses of red wine.
He reached one out to me.
“Just leave it on the table in the kitchen,” I said. “I’ll get it when I have time.”
Seth took a sip from one of the glasses.
I moved the chicken skewers around some more on the grill, just for something to do.
“Look,” Seth said. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”
I spun around fast enough to make myself dizzy. “Look,” I said. “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t kid yourself. You don’t know who I am, how I’ve changed, what I’ve been through. You don’t have any idea what I’m feeling or not feeling.”
I reached for my wineglass. Seth let it go without a word.
I took a big sip. “And listen,” I said. “I love my daughter enough to know she needs you in her life, but it has nothing to do with the two of us. So get over yourself, okay?”
He just looked at me. I took another sip, trying to taste the wine, but even my taste buds were numb, and it might as well have been punch. I turned my full attention to the Huli Huli Chicken.
When the door creaked open, we both turned around. A Senegalese pocket doll appeared, followed by most of Anastasia’s arm.
The doll danced back and forth like a puppet.
“Aloha,” it said in Anastasia’s voice.
15
DREW’S FAMOUS HAWAIIAN LUAU PARTY MUSIC WAS cranked all the way up on the cheap plastic CD player in the community center kitchen. My Lunch Around the World class had spontaneously formed a conga line and was dancing around the kitchen in their crinkly plastic leis.
Conga lines originated in Cuba and later became popular as Latin American carnaval marches. It wasn’t until the 1930s that they made their way into the United States. It was a stretch to connect them culturally to Hawaii in any way. It was even more of a stretch to make the one-two-three-kick pattern of the steps work with the beat of “Wipeout.” But if it didn’t bother the class, I certainly wasn’t going to worry about it. I yawned and stretched discreetly, then went back to threading the now extremely well-marinated Huli Huli Chicken onto bamboo skewers.
After Seth left last night, it was hard to know just what to say to Anastasia. Especially since she went right to her room and shut the door. I tiptoed up and down the little hallway a few times, pausing to listen casually outside her bedroom door. On one trip by, I thought I heard her talking to her stuffed animals, or maybe to the Senegalese pocket dolls.
I walked into the kitchen. I opened the jar of shea butter, a soothing cream made from a nut that grows wild in West Africa, and rubbed some on my hands. Just because it came from Seth didn’t mean I couldn’t use it.
Eventually, I walked back to Anastasia’s room and knocked. “Time to brush your teeth and go to beh-ed,” I called, sounding like a bad imitation of somebody trying to be a good mother.
Anastasia opened her door, carrying her pink nightgown. She walked by me as if I were invisible.
I knocked on the bathroom door. “Make sure you give me the tights so I can get those grass stains out,” I said.
The door opened a second later, and Anastasia’s tights landed at my feet.
“Thanks,” I said to the closed door.
When Anastasia came out, I was still standing there holding her tights.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was just going to come into your room and talk to you for a minute.”
She walked by me without a word.
I followed her into her room. I pictured her climbing into bed, and me tucking her in and smoothing out the covers. Then I’d sit on the edge of her bed. We’d go over every detail of Seth’s visit, sharing her highest hopes and my deepest fears.
She stopped just inside the door and crossed her arms over her chest.
“What?” she said.
I leaned back against the doorframe casually.
“So,” I said. “How did it go with your dad?”
She squinted up at me. “You were there,” she said.
“Good point,” I said. “Well, I think it went great. You two really seemed to hit it off.”
“Can I go to bed now?” she said.
“Sure, honey. You must be tired after all that.” I took a moment to fake a yawn. “Wow, me, too.” I leaned over to give her a kiss. “Okay, good night, Anastasia.”
She looked me right in the eyes. “It’s Asia,” she said. “From now on it’s Asia.”
Okay, so from now on it would be Asia, and maybe in another seven years I’d be able to call her that without triggering a flashback to our early years as a family. I plunged a skewer into a piece of chicken and pretended it was Seth.
By the time I finished threading the chicken onto the skewers, Seth was riddled with holes and I was feeling a bit more chipper. I arranged them on the community center’s well-used cookie sheets, which Ethel and her friends had wrapped in foil while T-shirt Tom preheated the oven. I’d planned on bringing my little Weber grill with me today and setting it out on the grass next to the building, but this morning when I got up, it just seemed like way too much work.
After Anastasia went to bed, I sat on the couch. Then I got up and poured another half glass of red wine. I sat on the couch some more while I drank the wine. I knew everything would be different after to night. Even if Seth was already running away—back to Africa or toward some new horizon—the balance of our lives had changed and nothing would ever be the same for Anastasia or me.
Finally I cried. I cried hard. I cried for a family that had once been whole and never would be again. I cried for my daughter and all those missed years with her dad she could never get back. I cried for myself and my dashed dream of a perfect little family in a house full of joy. And somewhere along the line I realized I was also crying for the little girl I’d once been, whose mother ignored her and who never knew her father. The sad and lonely child who’d always believed in her heart that better days were up ahead.
When I was sure she’d been asleep long enough, I tiptoed back into Anastasia’s room. She was curled up on her side, hugging an armful of Senegalese pocket dolls. Her face was flushed. One leg poked out of a tangle of covers.
I thought about trying to unravel the covers, but I didn’t want to risk it. Instead, I reached under her mattress and carefully wriggled out her diary.
I held my breath until I was back in the hallway. I knew I should have waited until she was safely at school. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this at all. But I was like a diary junkie who couldn’t wait until morning for her next fix. I leaned back against the wall and angled the pages under the ceiling light. It didn’t take long to find to night’s entry.
A my name is Asia
Senagleez pocket dolls
In the middle of a luaw
A dad that was worth waiting for
I sho
ok my head to bring myself back to the community center. T-shirt Tom freed himself from the conga line and came over to open the oven for me. Today’s shirt said my wild oats have turned to shredded wheat.
“Thanks,” I said. I slid the cookie sheets of Huli Huli Chicken inside.
When I stood up, he was looking at me through the fingerprints on his glasses. “Why so glum, chum?” he said.
One of his sidekicks broke away from the conga line and came up to stand with us. “Keep an eye on this one,” he said. “He can’t be trusted around the pretty young ladies.”
Ethel came over, too. “Oh, leave her alone, you old coots,” she said. The turquoise sweat suit and matching stretchy headband she was wearing really popped against her orange hair. “She already has a boyfriend. Don’t you, honey?”
“Okay,” I yelled. “Why don’t you dance that line over this way, and we’ll get the real party started.”
“Oh, no,” Ethel whispered. “Is it over already?”
BY THE TIME I FINISHED cleaning up after Lunch Around the World, my phone shift for Great Girlfriend Getaways had begun. I just managed to put the leftovers and everything else into the passenger side of my car before the phone rang.
“Hi,” a woman said after I finished answering. “Can you tell me if your Costa Rican surfing trip is full yet?”
“There are a few spots left,” I said. The truth was, the more the merrier, and no matter how many women signed up, we’d find a way to make it work. “But it’s one of our most popular trips, so I wouldn’t wait much longer.”
“Have you ever been on it?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Why not?”
Because I haven’t been anywhere in almost a decade and essentially I have no life didn’t seem like the most positive response.
“It’s next on my list,” I finally said in what I hoped was a believable voice. I didn’t tell her it was probably my bucket list, and that statistically I had approximately four decades to go before I kicked it.